The Shining City, Page 2

  ‘I can close your third eye for ye,’ Isabeau said gently. ‘At least for a night or two, to help ye rest. Ye look exhausted, Olwynne, and they tell me your school work is suffering.’

  Olwynne gazed at her aunt in dumb wonder. She could not believe her aunt knew so much about her when Isabeau was so busy with the work of the Coven. Olwynne’s own mother did not know about the nightmares. She thought about what the Keybearer had offered and, after a moment, reluctantly shook her head. ‘Ye say such dreams are sent as warnings, or messages. Should I no’ listen and try to understand?’

  Isabeau nodded. ‘Aye, under normal circumstances. But ye are still only an apprentice-witch, Olwynne, and ye have had a month o’ it now. I worry about your health and your schooling. Ye have been doing so well, I do no’ want ye to fall behind.’

  ‘It comes soon,’ Olwynne said. ‘Whatever it is will happen soon.’

  There was a long silence. Then Isabeau stood up, her hand going up to grip the Key that hung on a ribbon round her neck. ‘Then happen we should try to find out more while we can,’ she said forcefully. ‘When Ghislaine Dream-Walker returns from Aslinn, I will ask her to see if she can travel the dream-road with ye. I’m sorry, I should have thought to check on you weeks ago. It is just we have been so very busy.’

  Olwynne knew everyone was preoccupied with her older brother Donncan’s upcoming wedding to their cousin Bronwen, daughter of Maya the Ensorcellor. Olwynne had not thought she had minded their distraction, but at Isabeau’s words she felt the knot of tension behind her breastbone loosen. She muttered thanks, hoping Isabeau’s witch-senses would understand just how grateful she was.

  ‘Now I think ye should go back to bed for a while. I’ll write a pass for ye, excusing ye from the morning’s classes. Then a walk in the fresh air and a proper lunch will do ye the most good, I think. Come, I’ll walk ye back to your room.’

  ‘Och, there’s no need, I’m fine, really,’ Olwynne gabbled, ashamed that she was trespassing on her aunt’s good nature.

  ‘It’s no trouble. I wish to walk through the library anyway, and it’s on the way. I’ll be glad o’ your company.’

  Olwynne smiled shyly and stood up, putting her cup down on the little table. Isabeau went to her desk and shut The Book of Shadows reverently, then called to her familiar, the elf-owl Buba, who slept on the back of the chair, with her head sunk down into her wings. Come-hooh with me-hooh? Isabeau said in owl language. Buba opened her eyes sleepily, stared at Isabeau a moment, then flew to perch on her shoulder. She was tiny, no bigger than a sparrow, and white as snow.

  Why-hooh you-hooh frown-hooh?, she said, rotating her head round so she could stare unnervingly at Olwynne.

  I fear-hooh, but what-hooh, I know not-hooh, Isabeau answered.

  She did look troubled, Olwynne thought, as she followed Isabeau out of her room and down the stairs. The Keybearer’s face was pale and strained, and the frown between her brows had not smoothed away. She kept her right hand cupped round the talisman she wore at her neck, almost as if drawing strength from it. As they approached the library, which took up all of the great building between the northern and eastern towers, her pace quickened noticeably.

  They went into the long, dark room together. The lanterns sprang into life at once, and the kindling laid ready in the fireplaces at either end blazed up into dancing warmth. Olwynne glanced at her aunt enviously, wishing she had such a ready facility with flame. Her strengths were in the elements of water and earth, not fire, and she had to concentrate hard to light a candle, or bring witch-light. Isabeau had not even flickered an eyelid, let alone wave a finger, all her attention focused on the glass cabinets lined up against the walls, in little alcoves surrounded by towering bookshelves.

  These cabinets were used to display old relics and artifacts that might interest the students, or help them in their lessons. There were ancient scrolls, fragile as skin, old maps of other lands and other worlds, suits of armour, famous weapons and jewels, a clàrsach that was said to have belonged to Seinneadair the Singer, even the cast-off skin of a harlequin-hydra, its scaly coils glittering in the light, its hundreds of heads pinned up against the wall.

  Isabeau strode straight to a glass cabinet on the far side of the room. She stood there in silence for a long time. Olwynne stood beside her. As far as she could see, the cabinet contained nothing but an old stick. It had not been cleaned for a long time, for the floor of the cabinet was thick with dust.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Olwynne asked at last, conscious of the tension in her aunt’s slim body.

  ‘This cabinet had your father’s cloak o’ illusions hanging in it,’ Isabeau said tersely. ‘That is his crutch. When I first met him, he had naught but the cloak and an auld stick to lean on. No’ a stitch o’ clothing, nor a knife or bowl, nothing. I gave him my spare pair o’ breeches to wear, and much too tight they were for him too.’

  Olwynne was puzzled. ‘So where’s the cloak now?’

  ‘Gone,’ Isabeau said. She waved one hand before the cabinet’s lock and a symbol of blue fire flared up for a moment. Olwynne recognised a ward of protection. ‘No-one could have stolen it, for the lock has not been tampered with.’

  ‘Where’s it gone then?’ Olwynne simply could not understand her aunt’s tension. Although she knew it had some historical interest, as a relic from the days when her father had been a rebel fighting to overthrow the Ensorcellor, it was nothing but a hairy old cloak that probably smelt horrible. Her father had worn it day in, day out, for years, to conceal the wings and claws he had been left with after being transformed from a blackbird back into a man. He had not been able to discard it until he had at last won the throne back from the Ensorcellor, and by that time, Olwynne guessed, he had probably never wanted to see it again.

  Isabeau pointed to the pile of black dust on the cabinet floor. ‘I imagine that’s the remains o’ the cloak there.’

  ‘All that dust? Why, what happened to it?’

  ‘Ceit Anna wove that cloak for your father, Olwynne, from her own hair,’ Isabeau said impatiently. ‘It took her seven days and seven nights, and he wore it for seven long years. It was a weaving o’ great power. All this time it has hung here, so people could remember the time when one o’ the MacCuinn clan had to hide himself beneath a cloak o’ illusions to avoid being hunted down and killed. All this time, and now it is dust. Why? Why now?’

  Olwynne shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time. It must be twenty-four years or more, for Dai-dein won the throne no’ long before Donncan was born.’

  Isabeau turned and pointed to a tiny pink silk dress and cap in another cabinet nearby. ‘That dress belonged to Meghan o’ the Beasts as a child. It is much more than four hundred years auld. Why has it no’ dissolved too, then?’

  Olwynne’s cheeks heated. ‘I dinna ken.’

  ‘Olwynne, have ye forgotten? Ceit Anna died last night. The cloak was hanging there yesterday, yet now it is gone.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Olwynne said. ‘I suppose ye’ll have to find something else for the cabinet now.’

  Isabeau clicked her tongue in exasperation and Buba swivelled her head to stare at Olwynne out of her round, golden eyes. ‘Ye have no’ considered, lassie. Think! What else did Ceit Anna weave for us, that we may regret dissolving?’

  Olwynne’s eyes widened in horror. ‘The Ensorcellor’s ribbon that binds her throat!’

  ‘Aye! If Maya’s powers are returned to her, just now, when Bronwen and Donncan are no’ yet married, and there is still so much controversy over who truly has the right to rule …’

  Olwynne felt a cold clutch of fear. Although she saw Maya the Ensorcellor nearly every day – a thin, scarred, middle-aged woman who could communicate only by sign-language and the writing of messages on a little slate – Olwynne did not underestimate the power of the one-time ruler of the land. She had been told many dreadful stories of the days of the Burning, when the Coven had been thrown down, its towers destroyed, and witches hunted mercil
essly to death all over the country. She knew Maya’s powers were so strong and so subtle she had ensorcelled many into doing her bidding, and had been able to sway crowds of thousands to her will. Maya had only been controlled by the binding of her tongue to silence. Olwynne could not begin to imagine what might happen if she found that Ensorcellor’s tongue again.

  Olwynne’s father, Lachlan the Winged, had won the throne from Maya after the death of his brother, Maya’s husband, Jaspar. The land had been rent by civil war, and everyone had been relieved to have a strong leader occupying the throne. Those who had argued that Jaspar’s baby daughter, Bronwen, was by birth-right the true heir to the throne had been pacified by her betrothal a few years later to her cousin Donncan, Olwynne’s elder brother. If Bronwen had been a meek and biddable girl, the matter may well have ended there.

  However, the Ensorcellor’s daughter had inherited her mother’s imperious will and mysterious charm as well as her wild, fey beauty. In the six months since she had turned twenty-four, the age she would have assumed the throne in her own right, Bronwen had turned the court upside down with her antics. There had been much speculation that the betrothal between the two rival heirs to the throne might fail. Olwynne knew that her parents were angry and concerned, and Donncan furious and miserable, but the implications were far more serious than mere unhappiness within the family. There were those who envied the MacCuinn clan’s power, or hated the witches, or passionately believed that Bronwen was the true heir. If the cousins failed to marry, there was a strong chance that civil unrest may again trouble the land. Olwynne could only shudder at the thought of the turmoil Maya, unbound and vindictive, could cause.

  ‘We had best go and see Maya at once,’ Isabeau said. ‘Happen she is still sleeping.’

  Olwynne nodded. She hurried after Isabeau as the Keybearer strode through the library and across the garth to the servants’ wing. Though the other wings remained shuttered and quiet, the clanging of pots and pans, the gurgling of water, and the sound of voices and laughter did not bode well. The witches’ servants were used to waking early, for many rites took place at dawn and the witches were always keen for their breakfast afterwards.

  Maya had a dark closet of a room on the second storey, tucked in behind the stairwell. Olwynne felt no pity for her. Her own room in the southern wing was not much bigger, and she was the Rìgh’s daughter. Many doors along the corridor stood open, as serving-girls bustled in and out with jugs of hot water, or stood in the doorway, gossiping, as they combed back their hair. They all fell silent as Isabeau came past, dropping curtsies, and murmuring respectful greetings. Isabeau nodded and smiled at them but hurried on, Olwynne trailing close behind. Behind them rose a hum of curiosity.

  Maya’s door was shut. Isabeau rapped on it smartly. There was a short silence, then the former Banrìgh opened the door a crack and looked out.

  She was dressed, as usual, in a plain black gown, very like the apprentice’s robe Olwynne wore, only Maya’s was covered with a long white apron. Her greying hair was pinned back under a plain white cap. One side of her face was badly scarred, while the prominent knuckles of the webbed hand holding the door were red and swollen with hard work. She looked old and tired and sad.

  ‘Maya, I’m glad ye’re awake,’ Isabeau said. ‘I need to speak with ye. May I come in?’

  Maya raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I wish to examine your nyx-hair ribbon,’ Isabeau said bluntly.

  With an eloquent gesture, Maya lifted one hand towards the black ribbon bound about her throat.

  ‘I do no’ wish to do it standing in the corridor,’ Isabeau said impatiently. ‘Why will ye no’ let me in?’

  Maya shrugged and stood back, allowing Isabeau and Olwynne to step into her room.

  ‘Perhaps because she wishes to retain some illusion o’ privacy,’ a lilting, musical voice said very sweetly.

  Bronwen was sitting on the edge of the dressing-table, swinging one foot. She was dressed in a short-sleeved linen gown that exactly matched the soft blue of her eyes. She had dispensed with the usual collar of lace, the neckline cut square to show off her white throat and breast. It was not just her flawless skin that Bronwen was revealing. Long fins curved from elbow to wrist, and gills fluttered gently just under her jaw, on either side of her neck. Her skin gleamed with subtle silvery scales, as silky as a snake’s throat, and her nose was long and highly arched, with flexible nostrils that could clamp tightly shut or flare wide in temper.

  Her hair was secured back from her brow with a comb of silver-edged seashells, and hung to her knees like a glossy black curtain. One white lock of hair sprang from her brow and wound its way down to the end, startling against the blackness. She was like a column of ice, so cool and sharp was her beauty, and so adamantine her composure.

  ‘Bronwen!’ Isabeau exclaimed. ‘What are ye doing here?’

  ‘Visiting my mother. Or is that no’ allowed?’

  ‘At the crack o’ dawn?’

  ‘My mother works from sun-up to midnight, and is rarely allowed any breaks. When else am I to see her?’

  ‘Oh, Bronwen, dinna exaggerate! She is no’ a slave! She has plenty o’ free time, like anyone else who works in the service o’ the Coven.’

  ‘A few hours a week. I happen to wish to see my mother more often than that, and preferably when she is no’ exhausted by her work.’

  ‘Bronwen, ye ken ye can see your mother whenever ye want,’ Isabeau said in exasperation. ‘I would’ve thought midday a far more civilised time to come calling. Maya has a lunch-break, just like anyone else does, and ye could have gone into the gardens and eaten together.’

  ‘Och, aye, the gardens at lunchtime. Very private, with five hundred squalling brats running around.’

  ‘I’m sure ye o’ all people would know where to find a quiet corner,’ Olwynne said.

  Isabeau glanced at her with a slight frown, and she subsided. Bronwen shot Olwynne a sharp-edged look, then smiled, as if deciding to accept the remark as a compliment.

  ‘Maya, I need to look at your ribbon,’ Isabeau said, turning to Bronwen’s mother, who had been standing silently by the wall, her hands folded together, her face impassive.

  ‘Why?’ Bronwen cried at once. ‘What has my poor mother done to warrant this … this intrusion?’

  ‘Oh, Bronny, pipe down,’ Isabeau said. ‘I just need to make sure all is well. There’s no need for these histrionics. It’ll only take a moment.’

  Maya inclined her head, allowing her hands to fall down beside her body. Isabeau led her to sit in the only chair, flame uncurling from the wick of every candle in the room. Even the candlelight failed to alleviate all the shadows in the gloomy little room. With an impatient gesture, Isabeau conjured a ball of light to hang above the mute woman’s head, casting a strong steady light upon her. Maya kept her face lowered as Isabeau carefully felt right round the black braid of ribbon bound about her throat. Isabeau was frowning, and Olwynne felt a sudden rise in tension. She glanced at Bronwen, who grimaced at her and stretched out one elegant hand to examine her nails.

  Isabeau stood back. ‘Maya, did aught untoward happen last night?’

  Maya looked up at her and shrugged. She lifted the little slate that hung from her belt and rapidly wrote, ‘Heard nyx fly over’, with a piece of chalk she carried in her apron pocket.

  ‘The sound woke ye?’

  Maya put one hand behind her ear, then folded both hands and rested her head upon them, closing her eyes.

  ‘But then ye went back to sleep?’

  Maya nodded.

  ‘Naught else?’

  Maya shook her head.

  ‘Very well. Thank ye. I’m sorry to have intruded upon your privacy.’ Isabeau cast a smiling glance at Bronwen, who gave another expressive grimace and jumped to her feet.

  ‘Let me show ye out,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Och, thanks, but I think we can find our way,’ Isabeau answered. ‘Come on, Olwynne, ye’ll be late to breakfast if ye d
o no’ hurry. See ye soon,’ she said to both Maya and Bronwen with a nod and a little smile, and led the way out of the narrow, cheerless room, the witch-light winking out behind her.

  The corridor was empty now, all the other servants gone to their work. Olwynne was able to ask, ‘So the ribbon is intact?’

  ‘The ribbon is very much intact, and I felt a tingle o’ magic, as I should,’ Isabeau said slowly.

  ‘So, everything’s all right? No need to fear?’

  ‘I’m no’ sure,’ Isabeau answered. ‘Things did no’ feel right. It was a powerful spell Ceit Anna wrought for us, and nyx magic is strange and unknowable, I had always thought. Yet … the magic I felt seemed simple enough – spells o’ binding and silence. And though there was magic enough that my fingertips still tingle, somehow …’

  ‘What?’

  The Keybearer shrugged. ‘I dinna ken. It is a very long time since I last touched the ribbon. I do no’ remember how it should feel.’

  ‘As long as it’s still intact, and the magic holds,’ Olwynne said.

  ‘Aye,’ Isabeau agreed, her frown deepening. ‘So long as the magic holds.’

  ‘As for escaping, no man can look for that. The prison is large and has many prisoners in it … some bound to a post, some wandering abroad, some in the dungeon, some in the upper ward, some building themselves bowers and making palaces in the prison, some weeping, some laughing, some laboring, some playing, some singing, some chiding, some fighting. No man, almost, remembers in what case he stands until, suddenly, with nothing much looked for, young, old, poor and rich, merry and sad, prince, page, pope, and poor-soul priest … all … are put to death in different ways in some corner of the same prison, are thrown there in a hole, and are eaten either by worms under the ground or by crows above. Now come forth, you proud prisoner, for I know … all your pride is because you forget that [this world] is a prison.’

  THOMAS MORE,

  Lord Chancellor of England,

  executed on the order of Henry VIII in 1535